IntroductionThis project began, as so many literary ventures do, on a drunken New Year's fishing trip down in the Florida Keys. Bob Shacochis, Mark Richard, and Bob's dog, Frank, were ringing in the New Year around a campfire when Frank, an Irish Setter, was moved to verse. The poem, according to Bob, was titled "Wind," and follows in its entirety:

Leaves--I thought they were birds.

This was followed, according to Mark, by an ambitious sequel,Tangled cassette tapes behind Tower Records, I thought it was rats--it was rats!

One thing we were sure of: part of our happiness derived from pleasing them--the dogs we know, and, it occurred to us, the dogs we didn't know.

So we decided to give to a range of animal welfare agencies every last cent we make on this book.

Actually, we're devoting only half. But still--half!

Think of it as our benefit for the boneless.

So we're not Michael Rosen! What have you done for animals lately?

We have done what vocational guidance counselors recom-mend: find a thing you do anyway, and find a way to make it pay. And for us the surprise was no surprise at all--page after page of love poems.

No! I am not Ch. Dandie Dinsmore,Nor was meant to be;Just a beta dog, one that will doTo swell a pack, start a fight or twoAdvise the alpha, deferential,Glad to be of use,A rear-sniffer, meticulous,Politic, cautious, a bit obtuse.

Shall I drink from the toilet? Do I dare steal from the plate?I shall sleep upon their bed, on those nights they return late.I shall steal away his slipper, then steal away its mate.--Audrey

Stephen Dunn Buster's Visitation

I'm a dead dog for real now; no longer can I rise from my fakery, alert to commands I'd come to think of as love, though I never did obey as well as Sundown did or as a truly good dog would. To play the slave, not be one, was my code. You understood, who would play the master. From my grave in the yard I see now you had no gift for it, or heart. Bad dog, you'd say, so little conviction in your voice. In seconds you'd be patting my head. Forgiveness made you happy; I'd tip over the garbage to he forgiven by you. Let me tell you it's no life being dead. I'd give anything to chase the gulls again. But clarities come when the body goes. For whatever it's worthyou should know--you who think so much--only what's been smelled or feltgets remembered.And in the dark earth no doors open, no one ever comes home.--Buster